


Devil Eyes

by Zyzzyva



Series: My Name is Brutus [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fundy-centric, Gen, Ghostbur, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Panic Attacks, bit of dad!schlatt, i'm so glad we made ghosts canon, liberal use of ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zyzzyva/pseuds/Zyzzyva
Summary: Fundy isn't coping.(Continuation of The Problem is You, can be read separate.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Clay | Dream & Floris | Fundy, Eret & Floris | Fundy, Floris | Fundy & Jschlatt, Floris | Fundy & Phil Watson, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Quackity & Fundy
Series: My Name is Brutus [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020157
Comments: 28
Kudos: 238





	1. The Ring is Fire

**Author's Note:**

> EUGH the mc brainrot strikes again...

Fundy may be avoiding Tubbo.

(He’s familiar. He recognizes the same empty look in his eyes, the same tired slump of his shoulders, the signs of someone desperately trying to suppress their emotions. Fundy’s sure he looks just the same.)

Tubbo has not addressed _Schlatt’s_ dead body. It’s disappeared by now, he knows, because he keeps finding himself at the scene, and he keeps staring exactly where the body lay.

(He can’t get the sounds of desperate choking, coughing out of his head, can’t stop feeling like he’s the one dying, like he can’t breathe. He keeps waking up gasping, _Schlatt’s_ goat pupils burned into his eyes, his final words echoing in his ears.)

It’s not just Tubbo; everyone has been pretending nothing is wrong, that everything is great, even when they stumble over rubble that still hasn’t been moved, even days after the fact. They keep pretending everything is fine, and Fundy wants to scream.

He sees through the cracks-- none of them are doing okay, but Fundy just wishes they would fucking admit it:

Tubbo has chewed through his lips, left blood trickling down his chin in a nervous habit that he can’t bother to try to break.

Tommy screams _Wilbur’s_ name in the middle of the night, and they all pretend they can’t hear through the thin walls of their makeshift refuges.

Quackity’s hands haven’t stopped shaking, and he has started wearing his ring around his neck again in a way he hasn’t done since before the inauguration.

Phil’s eyebags grow more and more every day, and every once in a while he’ll simply stop and sigh to himself like he can’t believe what’s happening. (Fundy relates.)

Niki has been spotted in the button room many times, sitting on a piece of rubble and staring at her hands.

Everyone else has faded into a background blur, people he avoids and people he can’t bother noticing.

(Fuck. That’s ironic.)

Dream has been trying to talk to him for a while, now, but all Fundy can hear is a buzzing in his ears and whispers from _Wilbur_ he’s been trying to ignore.

“ _Fundy,_ ” Dream snaps, tapping his wrist. Fundy jumps more than he’d care to admit.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeats, running a hand over his face. Dream reaches out, gently, and fixes his fur.

(Fundy can almost forget he’s the one who started this all, who has caused all this chaos. His finger burns like the ring is fire.)

Fundy has been more uncomfortable with Dream than he’d care to admit. He wants to forget all this has happened, wants to forget about the destruction.

He wants someone he can trust, but he’s cursed, and there’s no way to escape that.

He reaches out and catches Dream’s hand, holds it for a second, then lets go and stands. Dream follows.

“I’m gonna go sleep,” he says, and leaves him behind.

Bad passes him on the way down to the common area, which is simply the cleanest area of the destruction. The eye of the storm. Fundy gives him a wide berth, wants to avoid him as best he can. Niki is cooking some sort of soup, and he goes to join her.

She jumps when he sits down beside her, and he gives her an apologetic smile. She pats his wrist.

“How are you doing?” She asks worriedly, genuinely, and Fundy wants to burst into tears.

He’s always loved Niki. She’s wonderful, the kindest person he’s ever met.

(He has no idea how she’s lived this long.)

(He keeps her at arm’s length, because if he gets too close to her she’ll betray him, and he doesn’t think he could handle that.)

Niki hands him a bowl and they eat in silence, but for once it’s comfortable, or as comfortable it can be with _Wilbur_ whispering in his ear. 

“Are you okay?” Niki asks after a minute. “Your ears are twitching.”

He shakes his head to clear it as best as he can. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

He finishes his meal, thanks Niki, and wanders on. He feels directionless.

His feet take him to _Schlatt’s_ place of death, again. He stares down at the floor, the pattern of the wood carved into his brain forever.

There’s no reason he should be here. _Schlatt_ didn’t matter to him, shouldn’t matter to him. 

He _did_. 

He can’t do this anymore. He crouches on the floor, holds his head in his hands, and _cries_.

Someone is patting his back, murmuring something or other, but he can’t bring himself to care. He feels like he’s going crazy, _Wilbur’s_ voice in his ears near-constantly. He can’t hear himself think.

It takes him a while to calm down, rubs disgusting snot on his sleeves, leaves tears and dirt smudged in his fur.

Once he’s finally stopped hiccuping too much to pay attention to anything else, once he’s finally able to breathe again, is when he raises his head.

Quackity is sat next to him, tears running down his cheeks as well, the ring on the chain gleaming around his neck.

Fundy relaxes. Of everyone, Quackity is the best candidate, one of the people he may trust the most.

(Which isn’t a good sign, but he can’t bring himself to care.)

“Sorry,” he rasps, sounding altogether too much like a certain president who was here a few days ago.

Quackity shrugs. “It’s not a problem. I saw you looked upset, and…” He reaches up to brush a few tears off his face.

Fundy hiccups. “Were you crying too?”

“Nah, nah,” Quackity says, still clearly wiping his tears. Fundy snorts. 

They sit in silence for a few seconds, neither of them quite sure what to say, both of them wanting to spill their guts and yet so hesitant to do so.

And then Quackity stands, claps his hands together (Fundy jumps), and says. “You know what. This is bullshit.”

He grabs Fundy’s arm and pulls him to his feet, and then outside and towards the common ground. Fundy rushes to wipe the rest of his tears off his face and fur, but he’s so confused he can’t quite get there.

Quackity reaches the area where Niki had been cooking maybe half an hour before. He makes a beeline towards Phil, who’s settled on a rock, sharpening one of his swords. His wings are curled around him, still covered in bandages. Not many of them had been injured in the explosion, but Phil had been trying to cover _Wilbur_. He didn't deserve it.

Quackity catches his attention and claps again, taking a breath. “Let’s admit it. You two’ve got to have a chat.”

Phil looks back and forth between the two of them. “Oh? What do you mean?”

Quackity runs a downy hand over his face. “Listen, y’all are fucked up. You’ve got to talk it out. Fundy isn’t handling this well.”

Fundy’s face burns, but he can’t help but be grateful for Quackity. But… why couldn’t he have been the one who’d been able to bring it up? Did it take Quackity’s interference?

_You’re just a follower, Fundy._

…

That’s not _Wilbur._

_Schlatt._

His hands are shaking, but he can’t fall apart. Not here. 

“Okay. Let’s go someplace private, then, Fundy.” Hm. Maybe he can imagine Phil being a father, now.

(That’s cruel. He doesn’t deserve that. Fundy’s just trying to force him away. He can’t get too close.)

Fundy makes to follow him.

_Are you going to just do what they say, Fundy? You’ve never hesitated to BETRAYdisobey before._

Fundy freezes, his mind shuttering closed. His hands are shaking like leaves. Phil and Quackity are staring at him.

“Fundy?” Phil asks gently, grabbing his hand. “Let’s go, okay?”

Fundy nods. 

He can see the shadow of horns in front of him.


	2. Grayscale Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fundy finally has some conversations... sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for a little bit of a wait! hope you enjoy!

The horns follow him while he follows Phil in some sort of fucked up shadow, burning themselves into his brain, a constant reminder. _Wilbur_ hasn’t stopped whispering, and Fundy feels like his head is going to explode.

He’s pretty sure Phil is saying something to him, but he can’t hear it over the buzzing. Phil has him sit down in Phil’s makeshift home, the closest place they have for now.

Phil takes his hand, and Fundy manages to focus his eyes on the clasped hands.

“What’s going on, Fundy?” He sighs. “I know we don’t know each other too well, but I’m here for you. As your grandfather, or whatever you need.”

Fundy runs his hand along his face, undoubtedly fucking up the fur pattern, but he doesn’t care. “I’m okay. I promise. I just need some time.”

“I know. I’m not expecting you to be fine. No one is. We lost a lot, yeah? And it’s okay to be… upset.” 

“I’m _fine_ , Phil.”

_Freaking the fuck out over my dead body is “fine,” huh?_

Fundy flinches, and Phil grabs his shoulder. “Fundy. Look at me.”

He does, and the pity there makes him sick. Something says it’s just worry, not pity, not Phil thinking he’s pathetic, but Fundy shakes it aside. Fundy can’t trust him. He can’t, or Phil will betray him. 

He pulls away, shakes like Phil’s touch has hurt him, stares at his hands. 

Phil’s saying something, but he can’t bring himself to care. He interrupts words he can’t hear. 

“I just need some sleep. I’m just gonna rest, okay? And then I’ll be fine.”

Phil gives up. 

(Good.)

The trek back to his makeshift home is lonely, save for the horns and the grayscale nightmares in the corner of his vision. 

He crawls into bed without changing, so exhausted he can’t muster the energy to do more than take off his cap and his shoes. 

Alone in bed, the whispers are only louder. 

( _Wilbur’s_ blood-stained beanie sits in the corner of his room, mocking him.)

(He gets out of bed.)

(He throws the beanie outside, where he can’t see it anymore.)

( _Schlatt_ and _Wilbur_ laugh, and he curls in bed, his ears folded to keep out the voices.)

(It doesn’t help.)

When the sun creeps through his windows, Fundy’s eyes crack open. He’s not sure when he fell asleep, but he only feels a bit more rested than the night before. He sits up, rubs his eyes, and looks around his room.

 _Wilbur_ is sitting in the middle of his floor, paging through his spy’s diary. He’s wearing a yellow sweater, his skin shades of gray and white, and Fundy can see the floor through his body.

He barely stops himself from screaming, but he still makes some sort of suffocated noise in his throat.

 _Wilbur_ looks up, and his expression is so far from what he’s seen in five, ten years.

(A crayon-colored uniform. Listening to his father sing lullabies. Stories of his mother.)

“...What the fuck.” 

His voice is shakier than he’d like it to be.

He gets up, his tail lashing, his ears pressed flat to his head. 

“What are you doing here. Get away from me.” 

Once he gets started, he can’t stop. 

“So, what? You can’t fucking leave me alone, even when you’re dead? You can’t just accept that maybe you fucked up as a dad, and as a president, and now you and your fucking friend can’t leave me alone? I don’t want to see you. Why are you haunting me?”

His voice becomes more of a whisper, or a hiss. “I don’t want you here. Why are you haunting me?”

 _Wilbur_ looks sad, looks confused. His voice comes out as a rasp, like the smoke that entered his lungs from the explosion had followed him, even in death. 

“... Fundy?”

He feels tears well up in his eyes. “Fuck off.”

He walks past the ghost, or whatever he is, and out the door.

_Schlatt_ seems to have disappeared, now that _Wilbur_ has appeared. 

(Fundy can’t decide whether he’s happy about that or not.)

(Because as much as he hates _Schlatt_ , he hates his father just as much.)

(Maybe more. He was never betrayed by _Schlatt,_ not truly.)

Phil looks at him like Fundy might drop dead any second, moving around him cautiously and gently, giving him a wide berth as they collect breakfast.

(Fundy feels like he might just as well.)

 _Wilbur_ is following him, and he can’t stand it. The yellow sweater he’s wearing burns Fundy’s eyes, and the grayscale makes him want to cry. He feels like ripping his fur out.

Eventually, after useless attempts at repairing the broken country, he makes his way out where no one will be able to see him, and stares at _Wilbur_.

“What the fuck do you want?” His voice comes out broken and strained, matching _Wilbur’s_ own.

“Hi, Fundy,” he says, as if he hasn’t been haunting far longer than he’s been a ghost.

“Just answer me,” he says, his face crumpling. He can’t stand this. He really can’t.

“Why are you upset?” _Wilbur_ asks, as if he doesn’t fucking know.

“Don’t fucking do that,” he hisses, tail thrashing. “Don’t make fucking jokes.” He starts to walk away, but _Wilbur_ grabs his arm.

“Fundy,” he says, and his voice is so sad it pulls at the last strings of familial bond he has left. He stops trying to pull away, and his father lets go.

“... I don’t remember, Fundy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please consider leaving a comment! they really make my day. /gen


	3. Fix It: Quackity's Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frankenstein arc when??
> 
> (warnings for this chapter: abuse of alcohol & emeto)

_“If I die, this country goes down with me.”_

Those words haven’t stopped ringing in Quackity’s ears since they were first spoken, from a man who was already dying. From a man who was already dead.

Maybe the country had been doomed from the moment his fiancé had first stepped onto the podium, or maybe even before that.

Maybe it didn’t matter. In any case, he hadn’t been fucking wrong. It wasn’t like they were much of a country at this point. They’d barely made any repairs since the explosion, and Quackity couldn’t quite say he was in the mood to continue working.

Maybe that’s why he’d been so quick to try to help Fundy when he’d seen he was struggling. It felt like for once, he could fucking _fix_ something.

He hadn’t been able to fix the president, hadn’t been able to fix L’Manburg, hadn’t been able to fix any of this, but maybe he could help fix Fundy.

(It wasn’t like he can fucking fix himself at this point.)

His funeral is a goddamn mess.

He feels manic, feels like he’s going fucking crazy. The emotions seesaw rapidly back and forth, tears welling up in his eyes once second and laughs bubbling in his throat the next. It’s beyond disorienting.  
(It feels a bit like he imagines his fiancé may have, in the final moments.)

(Where did it go wrong?)

Afterwards, all he can feel is pure, raw exhaustion. He drags himself to bed, passes Fundy and squeezes his shoulder, pretends he doesn’t feel him tense. He sees his own bone-tiredness reflected, and wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

(He never fucking does, does he?)

In bed, the memories are all the closer, and all the louder.

Whenever he closes his eyes, that’s all he sees. Memories, and nothing else. Inaugurations, first dates, proposals, arguments.

Betrayal.

Everyone looks at him with pity, having worked under the president, the poor v.p. who had been forgotten in the cabinet. But he’d made his decision, had pooled his votes, had fucking _proposed_ to the guy.

He wasn’t blameless in this mess, not by a long fucking shot.

Sometimes he wishes that they hadn’t forgiven him. He wishes they’d given him a harder time over his decisions. He didn’t deserve to live free.

(Not when his fiancé was six feet fucking under. He’s certainly not living.)

He talks to Niki about it, and she tells him he doesn’t need to be guilty. 

“It’s normal for people to feel guilty when someone close to you has died, especially when you were there for it,” she says as he watches her harvest carrots, one of the few parts of L’Manburg that had survived. “There’s nothing you could have done, though, and you don’t need to fret it.”

There were things he could have done, though. Too many.

( _Schlatt has started drinking more, after Tubbo’s death. Quackity still feels sick when he thinks about it. When he closes his eyes, he still sees fireworks imprinted on his eyelids._

_Quackity knows he feels guilty, even if Schlatt would never admit it. He’s too proud to admit he’s made a mistake, even if they both know it._

_And it’s not like he didn’t drink before. It’s always been a bit concerning, but it’s horrible to have to help Fundy (or worse, Tubbo, the poor kid) carry him back to his room. It makes him sick._ )

Quackity should have helped him then. Should have done more. Should have fixed him before then.

(“If I die, this country goes down with me.”)

He thanks Niki for her help, and moves on. 

He stands over the casket, and cringes. Suddenly he feels nauseous, and he’s barely able to bend to the side before he’s sick in the bushes. 

Holy fuck, he ate his fiancé’s fucking heart. 

(It was disgusting.)

(He doesn’t regret it, not if it works.)

He shouldn’t have died.

Wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for Quackity’s mistakes.

And Quackity will fucking fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things about this chapter:
> 
> i'm sorry it's so much shorter! it definitely wasn't on purpose but it's kinda just how it happened. i really admire people who can write longer chapters, haha.
> 
> quackity's character is so interesting to me. i have no idea where it's going, but i love it.
> 
> i think his character really revolves around both a desire to do what's right & to be admired/liked, & i think he struggles with those two aspects of himself a lot. he ran for president because he admires l'manburg & saw that wilbur wasn't doing a good job, but he also stayed silent in the face of tubbo's execution because he didn't want to go against schlatt (which he later regrets, of course, but it doesn't change that.) it's really interesting to me! i'm looking forward to how he deals with it in this arc.
> 
> (also, we as a fandom definitely don't talk about the fact that quackity & schlatt were engaged enough so i guess it's up to me!)


	4. Unrequited Hatred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ghost business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: none! we're all good.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Fundy hisses.

“I… I remember I died,” _Wilbur_ continues in that same sad tone, rasping in a way that makes Fundy want to claw his ears out.

“Phil stabbed you,” Fundy says, shaking his hand off. “You asked him to.”

After a small “oh”, Wilbur stands still. After a few long moments, he shakes his head as if it clear it, and a smile finds its way onto his face.

“That is okay, though, right?” He asks, still unsure but gaining confidence fast. “It does not seem like something I want to remember, anyway!”

“Sure…” Fundy says, a bit confused, and mostly concerned. He doesn’t like this new _Wilbur, _not one bit.__

__(He doesn’t like any of them, anyway.)_ _

__

__He makes an escape as quickly as he can. He’s open about the animosity the ghost doesn’t seem to understand. It’s not like he especially wants to jostle unpleasant memories, but it really only seems fair._ _

__(Not like his father never left him with plenty of his own.)_ _

__His father was always good at avoiding conflict, but at least when he was alive he was aware of the hatred between them two. At least he knew. Even if he never respected it, at least it was acknowledged._ _

__Unrequited hatred is so much more bitter._ _

__(But fuck it, he deserves to be a bit petty.)_ _

__

__Eret wants to adopt him._ _

__He doesn’t trust it, but he’s so fucking _desperate_ for the reprieve. _ _

__( _Wilbur_ hasn’t continued following him around, but every time he catches a yellow sweater in the corner of his eyes he wants to cry. He keeps his ears ramrod straight, listening for the rasp of defunct presidents, looking for either sad or biting remarks, but none come.)_ _

__So, hesitantly, exhaustedly, he agrees. Eret seems thrilled, for their part. He doesn’t trust it, all the same, but all he wants is a parent. It doesn’t seem that large a dream, does it?_ _

__Phil seems a bit more doubtful, seemingly concerned with Eret’s qualifications despite his own lack of involvement in Fundy’s life. All the same, he’s grateful for the care._ _

__They set a date, and Fundy waits for the disappointment._ _

__

__It comes in the form of Eret not even bothering to fucking show up. Fundy wants to smash something._ _

__Phil pats on his back as he bites back tears and curses. Neither of them says much, but when Fundy says a few words about wanting to fish, Phil drops everything and they go._ _

__(It feels nice. He knows it won’t last.)_ _

__Tubbo shows up, ruins the moment, but he laughs, so it’s okay._ _

__( _Wilbur_ watches them. Fundy bristles.)_ _

__

__After some time, _Wilbur_ starts approaching them more and more. Fundy is still uncomfortable, still waiting for the bitter taste of condescension, but it doesn’t come. _ _

__(Every time he starts to question whether or not it’s truly that bad, whether he should let his guard down, it’s a struggle to keep himself in check. He can’t. _Wilbur_ has hurt him more times than he can count, and he’s not going to hold his breath this time.)_ _

__They’re sitting together on a pier when _Wilbur_ asks the question._ _

__“Why are you wearing a ring?” He points at Fundy’s engagement ring with confusion and a hint of apprehension, as if he’s worried about the answer._ _

__Fundy cringes. Before his father’s death he’d been trying to avoid bringing up the prospect of his engagement, knowing exactly the kind of reaction it’d bring. Now, he's less sure._ _

__“I’m engaged,” he states after a moment, pulling in his fishing rod to replace the bait._ _

___Wilbur_ stares at him for a second too long before standing. His voice trembles when he says, “Fundy, you’re too young for that, aren’t you?”_ _

__Fundy frowns, already bristling. Here comes the condescension he was so dreading. “You were younger when you had me, so don’t go starting that shit.”_ _

__(He wants to run, but then he’d be far too much like _Wilbur_.)_ _

__“How old are you?” His father asks with too much emotion, and Fundy finally looks at him._ _

__Oh._ _

__“Twenty-one,” he says, turning away very deliberately._ _

___Wilbur_ stays frozen in his periphery for a moment before he sits back down. _ _

__“I don’t want to talk about this any more,” he states, and Fundy’s ears flatten._ _

__(When _Wilbur_ calls him ‘my little champion,’ a few minutes later, he knows it’s over.)_ _

__

__Despite his misgivings, despite his hatred, he can’t seem to escape the ghost. At this point, he’d much, much rather deal with _Schlatt_._ _

__He was rude, coarse, and cruel, but he was never hesitant. He never shied away from speaking his mind and taking the most drastic course of action. It was refreshing, after dealing with his father and his overthinking for so much of his life._ _

___Schlatt_ knew he was hated. He didn’t care. He had a magnetism that made Fundy want to believe in him, made him want to follow him. _ _

__Fundy couldn’t deny it: he missed him. The president had never been a monster. He was horrible at times, but he was also mortal._ _

__He took care of them, while they were in his cabinet, in a way that his father had never done. And it was nice, for a while._ _

__Fundy still turned when anyone coughed, ready to help a president into a seat, and he’d seen Quackity and Tubbo do the same. He was still uncomfortable when anyone brought out alcohol, ready for the inevitable meltdown._ _

__They had helped each other out, and now more than ever he's aware of the lack of care around him._ _

___Schlatt’s_ ghost hasn’t returned since _Wilbur_ arrived, and it sets Fundy’s teeth on edge._ _

__(He’s not sure whether he was ever truly there, in the first place, and that frightens him.)_ _

___Wilbur_ has told him the few stories he remembers. He doesn’t remember the election (well, he remembers “winning”), and none of _Schlatt’s_ actions. Instead, he tells stories of lava and TNT that sound more fictional than biographical, but he swears they’re true._ _

__(Fundy hadn’t known they’d been friends. It causes a pain in his chest much like the heart attack _Schlatt_ suffered.)_ _

__(He wonders when things turned sour, but he doesn’t dare ask, doesn’t dare risk the balance he’s found.)_ _

__When he lays in bed, late at night, he asks the ceiling, and he never gets an answer._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we may have never gotten dadschlatt in canon but it's canon in my heart,,
> 
> **few things:**
> 
> i'm going to be discontinuing this fic. i'm not too interested in it anymore, unfortunately, haha. i think this functions as a bit of an open ending & i hope it works for you <3.
> 
> i've written a number of other things since this so please check them out as well. i have a lot of ideas & many wips so watch out for those. thank you for reading :).

**Author's Note:**

> i'm super excited to start a multi-chapter fic for this fandom! please follow both this fic & this series if you're interested in hearing more from me :).
> 
> here's my [ ko-fi ](https://yaoyoyoyo.tumblr.com/post/623129308189327360/i-just-finished-setting-up-a-ko-fi-please-check)!  
> here's my [ information on writing commissions ](https://yaoyoyoyo.tumblr.com/post/631112745941712896/hello-ive-finally-decided-to-officially-open)!  
> here's my [ tumblr ](https://mcin2020.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> let me know if any of the links break, and i'll do my best to fix them!  
> please leave some comments, and i'm always, always open to constructive criticism :).


End file.
